It is when darkness falls over Bucha that the witches come out, as that is when the Russian attack drones begin to swarm.
The Witches of Bucha, as they call themselves, are an almost entirely female volunteer air defense unit that is now helping to protect Ukrainian airspace as more and more men are sent to the front lines.
There are also more drones to shoot down, often launched from Russia in waves to overwhelm key defenses ahead of a missile attack.
The night shifts allow the women to combine their work in defense of their country with daily jobs as teachers, doctors – there is even a manicurist.
Many say it is a way to overcome the powerlessness they felt when Russian troops occupied the Bucha region at the start of the large-scale invasion.
The horror stories of those weeks – including killings, torture and kidnappings – only began to emerge after Ukrainian forces liberated the area in late March 2022.
Air raids and old weapons
“I’m 51, I weigh 100 kg, I can’t run. I thought they were going to send me away, but they hired me!” Valentyna remembers a vet who joined the drone busters this summer and now goes by the call sign Valkyrie.
She talks about friends who were deployed to the front, and others who died in the fighting, as part of what brought her to this role.
“I can do this job. It’s tough, but we women can do it.’
Valentyna is able to demonstrate that a few hours later an air raid siren is activated throughout the region.
Her unit rushes from their base in the woods and we follow their pickup through the darkness as it lurches toward the middle of a field. The team of four jump out to mount their weapons.
The machine guns come from another era: two Maxims from 1939, ammunition boxes with red stars on them from the Soviet era.
Serhiy, the only man on the team, has to pour bottled water by hand as coolant.
This is all that is available: Ukraine’s best equipment is on the front lines and the country is constantly asking its allies for more.
But the ancient weapons are immaculately maintained and the Witches say they have downed three drones since the summer.
“My role is to listen to them,” Valentyna explains. “It’s nervous work. But we have to stay focused, listen to the slightest sound.”
Her friend Inna is also in her early fifties and on one of her first missions.
“It’s scary, yes. But that also applies to childbirth, and I did that three more times,” she laughs, telling me that her own nickname is Cherry: “Because of my car, not the tomatoes.”
As a math teacher, she occasionally has to rush back from the forest to attend class.
“I keep my clothes in the car. My heels. I put on some lipstick, lecture. Then he’s back in the car, quickly changing around the corner and I’m off.”
‘The boys are gone, but we are here. What can’t Ukrainian women do? We can do anything.”
Somewhere on the horizon is a beam of light from another group, scanning the sky for danger above their own patrol area.
There is no public data on the total number of volunteer units – or how many women are involved. But because Russia sends drones loaded with explosives almost every night, they help form an additional shield around major towns and cities.
From the witches’ position in a field, Yulia follows two drones on her tablet. They are over the adjacent region, so there is no immediate danger to Bucha, but the machine guns will remain in place until the alarm ends.
There are no more men left
The commander of the volunteers is a big bear of a man, just back from Pokrovsk in the eastern Donbas region, where the fighting is heaviest.
“There are fireworks, non-stop,” is how Andriy Verlaty describes it there, smiling.
He had about 200 men operating mobile air defense units in the Bucha region and patrolling during night curfew, many of whom were unfit for full military service.
Then Ukraine revised its mobilization law, citing an urgent need for more soldiers, and much of the colonel’s crew suddenly found itself eligible for the front line.
“About 90% of my men ended up in the army and another 10% hid and scattered like rats. We had almost no one left,” says Colonel Verlaty bluntly. “Only men with no legs, or half a skull missing.”
He had a choice: fill the roles with men under mobilization age, or recruit women.
“At first it was a joke: ‘Let’s get wives!’ There wasn’t much trust in them, in the armed forces. But that has really changed,” he says.
Taking back control
The witches spend their weekends undergoing broader military training. On the day we visit, it is their first lesson on storming a building. They practice in the ruins of a farm outbuilding, poking their guns through empty doorways before walking gingerly past.
Some manage to be more convincing than others, but the women’s commitment and focus is clear – because their reasons for doing so are deep and personal.
“I remember the occupation. I remember the horror. I remember the screams of my own child,’ says Valentyna with small sighs. “I remember the dead bodies when we were running.”
Her family escaped from Bucha past burned-out tanks, dead soldiers and civilians. At a Russian checkpoint, she says a soldier made them roll down the car window and then put a gun to her son’s head.
She is filled with silent anger.
That is also why Valentyna refuses to believe in Ukraine’s victory, despite the gloom that has descended on much of her country after nearly a thousand days of full-scale war.
“Life has changed, all our plans have been torn apart. But I’m here to help accelerate the end of this war. As our girls say here, it won’t end without us.”
In combat boots, rifle in hand, crunching over broken glass and rubble, office manager Anya is another volunteer witch. Now 52, she finds military training empowering.
“During the occupation I felt the utter meaninglessness of my existence. I couldn’t help anyone else, nor defend myself. I wanted to learn how to use weapons so I could make a difference.”
There is a lot of discussion with the trainers: the women are having a good time. But later that night, at their base in the woods, one of them opens up even more and tells a chilling story.
When Bucha was taken over, Russian troops began going from house to house. They raped and murdered. One day the rumor spread that the occupiers were coming to kill the children.
“I will never forgive the Russians for the decision I made that day,” this woman confides.
I won’t share the details of what she told me – the extreme decision she made – only that the soldiers never came and she never had to act on it. But that moment, and guilt, has haunted this woman ever since.
The first time she felt relief was when she started learning to defend herself, her family and her country.
“It really helped that I came here,” she says softly. “Because I will never sit there as a victim and be so scared again.”
